


Arco Iris

by freyafrida



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyafrida/pseuds/freyafrida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Blythes and Merediths grow up. (One-shots set between Rainbow Valley and Rilla of Ingleside.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Full Moon

It's a full moon tonight, over Ingleside. Well -- it's a full moon everywhere else as well, Walter knows, but everything looks sweeter and more lovely from one's homestead. It would look  _exceptionally_  beautiful over Rainbow Valley, but Dr. Blythe has deemed Walter too weak from the typhoid to go out that far yet. Sitting out on the veranda after sunset is Walter's small -- and only -- rebellion against his orders to stay inside. 

"Come in if the wind starts to blow," was all Gilbert had said upon finding Walter sitting -- somewhat moodily, it must be admitted -- on the veranda swing after supper that night.

 

It's incredibly frustrating. Even  _Rilla_  has more freedom than he does. Admittedly, he can write poetry from his bed just as well as he can in Rainbow Valley, but it doesn't change the trapped, useless feeling he has. At this rate, he'll be going to Redmond with Shirley. 

 

He tips his head back to look at the moon, glowing bright in a sea of stars. Inside, he can hear Susan attempting to teach Rilla how to effectively clean the dishes. Mother has gone off to read and Dad to tend to some emergency or another. 

 

More than being bored and frustrated, Walter is  _lonely_. Jem, Jerry, Ken, and Faith are all off at Redmond, Shirley and Carl at Queen's, and Nan and Di at their respective schools. Walter feels the absence of Di -- his favorite sister and confidant -- most keenly. He loves Rilla, of course, but she is thirteen, and her idea of stimulating conversation generally involves gossiping about the many people she dislikes (or, as Walter has discerned, feels threatened by).

  
"Oh," comes a soft voice. "Hello, Walter."

  
Walter lowers his gaze to see Una Meredith standing at the porch steps, basket in hand. She gives him a small smile but doesn't move, as if she needs permission to walk to the door. But then, she probably does. Una doesn't do anything she's not sure she's allowed to.  

  
"Una," he says. "It's good to see you. Late visit?"

  
She ducks her head. "I finished cutting out Rilla's dress. I thought I would bring it over."

  
Walter smiles. "You really should make her do it herself. My sister lacks a work ethic."

  
Una smiles, too -- or what the Blythe and Meredith youngsters have learned to read as a smile from her. In reality, it is merely a slight quirk at the corner of her mouth. Walter wonders what a real, full smile would look like on her. He wonders if there's anything that could coax such an expression from this serious, sorrowful girl. 

  
"Perhaps," she says. "But I have to take care of Bruce and won't be able to give it to her tomorrow, you see. If I give it to her now, she won't have an excuse to put sewing it off."

  
Walter feels his smile grow. "Ah. That's rather manipulative of you, Miss Meredith."

 

She hesitates, then walks up the steps to stand across from him, clutching the basket in front of her like a shield. "What are you doing out here? I thought…I heard you weren't well."

  
Walter nods. Of course the Merediths had been told of his illness. In honesty, Walter had thought mostly of Faith -- wondering if she was worried for him, if she cared. He'd had a horrible, delusional dream that she had confessed her love to him at his sickbed, and then awoke feeling foolish and guilty. 

  
He shakes away the memory, turning his attention back to Una. "I'm getting better," he says. "Unfortunately, I still can't leave Ingleside." He half-smiles. "There was an argument about whether or not I was allowed to sit out here at all."

 

"I'm glad you're getting well," Una says softly. 

 

"Thank you," Walter says. Remembering the first part of her question, he adds, "I came out to see the full moon."

 

"It is nice," Una offers. "It did seem brighter than usual outside."

 

"Do you suppose," Walter asks, ignoring her rather unimaginative response, "the moon is a woman or a man? At times, it seems rather feminine -- so pale and gentle in the sky. And yet, don't they say there is a man in the moon, destined to circle the Earth for his transgressions?"

 

"The moon is female in French and Italian," Una says thoughtfully. "But masculine in German."

  
Walter turns to look at her. "I didn't realize you were studying languages."

 

"Oh, no," Una says, blushing. "I only -- people are always giving Father books he doesn't read -- and he doesn't speak anything but English, anyway -- and with everyone away…" She looks down. "There isn't much else to do."

 

"Ah," Walter says, feeling a strange pang in his chest. He should spend more time with her, he decides. Una has always been a bit lost in the shuffle, because of her quiet nature. And he knows sweet but thoughtless Rilla certainly isn't worrying about Una, alone in the manse without a friend her own age.

 

"But it's nothing at all in English, isn't it?" he hurries on before the silence can turn strange. "It seems a shame that we see the moon as a mere object. And only a few of us will ever wonder if it is feminine or masculine -- does it look down at us as a mother or a father? How nice it must be to look at the moon and know that your fellow countrymen see it the same way you do."

 

"I don't know," Una murmurs. "Perhaps it's a good thing. There are no -- preconceptions. You can see it as it suits you." She doesn't meet his gaze -- in fact, she looks a bit embarrassed. Walter suddenly remembers how loath Una has always been to participate in thoughtful discussions with them -- feeling out of her depth among the Queen's and Redmond crowd. 

 

"I didn't think of that," he says, honestly. "Perhaps some nights it rises as a woman and some nights as a man."

  
"Perhaps," Una says. He can feel her withdrawing, and indeed, she turns away. "I should give this to Rilla before it gets too late. Soon not even the full moon will be enough light.”

  
"Of course," Walter says. Impulsively, he reaches out and catches her hand. In the moonlight, he can see all the color drain out of her already pale face. For a moment, he wonders -- surely most girls blush when their hands are held? But then the thought is gone. 

  
"You should visit more often," he says. "We -- all of us -- feel a bit lonely, with everyone else away. Mother would love to see you. And," he adds, "so would I."

  
This time Una does blush, gently withdrawing her hand. "I will." 

 

Watching her walk into the house, Walter feels the heavy loneliness and frustration lighten, just slightly. He leans back and tries to decide whether the moon seems more feminine or masculine tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, he’ll convince Dad that he’s well enough to amble to the manse, and he’ll tell Una what he’s decided. Perhaps he can coax her into an academic discussion and she’ll show him some of her father’s books. He might even bring Rilla along, to placate Mother’s fear that her youngest daughter is letting her brain atrophy.

 

The wind begins to blow and Walter stands up and goes back inside.


	2. Keys

_Plink._

Una winces. She knows that was the wrong note.

"Almost," Rosemary says. "Remember, you move your left hand, not your right one, here." 

Una stares down at her hands, feeling awfully clumsy and foolish. She wishes she had never told anyone about her desire to have music lessons. Let Nan and Di be the musical ones! Una, it seems, cannot keep up with the piano. 

The worst part is, for a while she had been doing exceptionally well. Seeing the pride on Rosemary's face had been an even better reward than successfully playing any of the pieces she had been taught. Una is sure that she's let her stepmother down.

But Rosemary is smiling, in the gentle way that makes many people think that the former Miss West is Una's biological mother. Under her kind gaze, Una relaxes.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," she says softly, and Una marvels at the way her new stepmother seems to read her mind. "This is a tricky piece. You've made incredible progress. Let's try again." 

Una flushes, as she has a tendency to do at even the slightest criticism or praise. She clenches her hands over the keys and then opens them, rests her fingers on the cool ivory. A strange sort of stubbornness has taken hold inside of her -- she, Una, who is never stubborn! Yet she feels determined to get this right, to make Rosemary proud, to be  _good_  at something -- have a skill like the way Jerry can argue, the way Faith can charm everyone she meets, the way Carl can analyze and memorize every insect he sees.

She tries again.

It's not a perfect attempt -- she plays slowly and deliberately, determined not to slip up, the song breaking into pieces as she pauses to correct her every move. But the notes ring clear and true, and the melody is no longer marred by mistakes.

"You needn't hesitate so when you play," Rosemary says. Seeing Una's face fall, she touches the girl's shoulder with a smile. "But it was very good. Practice and it will be even better. You simply need more confidence. Maybe you'd like to accompany Nan Blythe at the church concert? She's picked a lovely song -- not too difficult. You could learn it by the end of the month."

"Oh -- " Una starts, the words "Oh, no" prepared to spill out. Then she pauses, looks at the keys again. She can do this, can't she? She knows Nan would prefer to have Una accompany her over anyone else. And if Una practices, she thinks, she'll be able to perform whatever piece the older girl chooses. She allows herself to imagine -- just for a moment -- the glow of her family's faces if she plays for them. Maybe even Kitty Alec will stop gossiping about the Merediths, if she sees how hard Una has worked.

"All right," she says, a sense of purpose settling over her.

Rosemary smiles. "You'll do wonderfully. Why don't you try it one more time, and then you can go tell Nan the good news?"

Una inhales and begins again. This time, she doesn't hesitate.


	3. Shifting and Shaping

Faith had a bruise.  _Again._  She wasn't even really sure how she'd gotten this one - it was on her arm, so she probably hadn't tripped and fallen down this time (which was good, because Rosemary had just finished sewing up all her stockings). Perhaps she had gotten it the other day in Rainbow Valley - they'd been trying to see who could roll down the hill fastest (Nan, being the smallest, had won, to Faith's slight irritation). That would explain it.

She'd discovered it while rolling up her sleeves to get a drink from the creek, but now was too engrossed in poking it and watching it fade into her skin, then turn back to purple. She poked it again. Pink, purple, pink, purple…

"Faith?"

She blinked and looked up. Jem Blythe was standing there, squinting at her in confusion.

 "Oh! Hello, Jem." She scrambled to her feet, feeling vaguely foolish. Ever since coming back from his first year at Queen's, Jem seemed so…grown up. He sometimes walked back from church with older girls, discussing various intellectual something-or-others with them. Of course he still chummed with her and the old Rainbow Valley group, but…there was a vague sense of dissatisfaction with their friendship that Faith couldn't put her finger on. He laughed less - laughed  _differently_. He chuckled over their old stories with an air of amusement, but he only laughed in his old, uproarious way with - with - the  _older_ boys and girls. It made Faith feel rather embarrassed to be caught childishly playing with her bruise - although strangely, she was sure she wouldn't have cared if it were Walter or Ken Ford.

He smiled at her. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," she answered, sinking back down to the grass.

He sat down next to her and tilted his head. "Poking a bruise?"

Was he making fun of her? Just because she wasn't going to Queen's -  _yet_  - didn't make her a baby to be patronized! She scowled at him. "I'd just discovered it," she said, a bit stiffly.

Jem's eyebrows raised. Faith, still on the defensive, interpreted that as a sign that he was judging her silently.

"I should go home," she muttered, feeling irritated and embarrassed. She wasn't even sure  _why_  she was so angry with Jem - or perhaps she was angrier at herself - she wanted to prove to Jem that she was just as grown-up as all his new friends - and instead had let him catch her acting like a child. She simply couldn't be around him anymore.

"Oh, wait," Jem said, catching her arm. His fingers pressed against her bruise and Faith hissed. He let go quickly, but took her hand instead, tugging her down to sit with him. "Let me have a look. As a doctor-in-training," he added mock-seriously.

"You aren't even done with Queen's," she pointed out.

 "True," he conceded, rolling her sleeve up. "But it's never too early to start!"

"It's not really that bad -" Faith began to protest, but Jem was already acting the part of the doctor, hands carefully touching the area around her bruise.

"Does this hurt?" he asked, pushing gently.

"Yes," she said. "Really, it's just a bruise."

Jem didn't say anything, fingers skimming over her skin, skin warm and touch gentle. Faith sat quietly, unsure what to do. She wanted to pull away - his touch made her nervous, jumpy. She wanted to run home. She wanted to stay. Jem hadn't been quite so close to her - physically - a while. She sneaked a look at his face. He didn't look mocking or patronizing. In fact, he looked quite serious, as though the purple blotch on her arm was a life-threatening wound. It was such an unfamiliar expression that her breath caught.

Maybe this was the problem. Jem wasn't  _Jem_ , anymore. He was thoughtful and ambitious and talked of becoming a doctor instead of playing soldier. And he had left them all behind while he went to - to - to  _grown-up land._

"How did this happen?" he asked.

Faith felt her face turn red, but had to answer the question. She couldn't lie to Jem. "We were trying to see who could roll down the hill the fastest."

Jem laughed - but the sound seemed distracted. "And who won?"

"Nan," muttered Faith.

Jem  _tsk_ ed. "All this trouble and you didn't even win?"

 "It's only one bruise!" Faith protested.

 "Well," he said, "it looks like it'll be fine." He tugged her sleeve back down, hand brushing her elbow, her wrist.

 "That's because it's just a bruise," Faith said. Then, feeling bad for being sarcastic, she gave him a small smile. "You'll make a good doctor," she added.

 "Thank you." He stood, offering a hand to help her up. When she got to her feet, he didn't let go. "I missed you, you know."

 Faith stared at their joined hands, feeling something strange move inside her. She could still remember the brush of his fingers on her skin, the gentleness of his touch - Jem, who never used to be gentle. And yet.

 "I missed you, too," she murmured. She felt him give her hand a squeeze, and had to smile. Perhaps somewhere deep down, he was still the same Jem - cared for them - for her - just the same as he always had.

"I'll walk to you back to the manse, shall I? And I'll check up on your wound tomorrow," he said, looking oddly...shy? Jem was never shy. Faith's heart gave a strange, unlikely  _thump_.

Maybe nothing was the same.

Maybe that was all right.


	4. I Map the Words Out, Maybe You Will Say Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Momentum" by Vienna Teng.

Walter waits until Rainbow Valley is empty before he begins to write. He has never been particularly shy about his poetry, but this is - different. He scratches out his ode _to Rosamond_ \- a girl with hair of gold and eyes of blue - of course the real Rosamond has brown eyes, but Walter is careful not to put in too many references to Faith Meredith. He thinks, with a reference to blue eyes and perhaps a comparison to flowers (if it isn't too cliché), maybe if the poem is published and - God forbid - Jem reads it, he will assume it is about Alice Parker, or some other girl Walter knows.

He wonders if it is a betrayal of Jem to be writing poetry about Faith - and if it is a betrayal of his poetic ideals to disguise the subject of his prose in this way. But no, he decides. As important as his lofty ideals are to him, he will not hurt Jem.

For a long while there is only the whistle of the wind through the trees and the scratching of his pen as he writes his poem to the girl who will never be his. He's not really even sure _why_ he continues to worship Faith from afar - he knows she and Jem are meant to be together. He thinks perhaps that he has held on to his infatuation with her for so long that it would feel strange to let it go, irrational as it is.

He is so lost in his thoughts and his poetry that he doesn't hear the crunch of leaves as someone approaches. In fact, he doesn't notice the other presence at all until she sits down next to him, her skirt grazing his knees.

"Una!" He jumps, startled, and quickly flips to a blank page. Una has never seen his poems, and he certainly doesn't want her seeing his sonnet to her sister as an introduction. Walter somehow feels wholly uncomfortable with Una reading his love sonnets, though he is not sure why.

She smiles shyly. "Did I bother you?"

He has to smile at that. Typical Una - her first thought is always about others, never herself.

"Not at all," he says. "I was writing, but - I'm having a bit of a block."

That is a lie. He had been writing rapidly, line after line after line. But he doesn't want to hurt Una's feelings.

"Oh," she says. "What were you writing about?"

_Your sister and my traitorous unrequited love for her._ "I was trying to capture autumn," he says. "The essence of it." He had, in fact, already finished his poem about the season of change, but since it isn't a complete fabrication, he feels less guilty.

"I wish I could help," she tells him simply. Walter appreciates that. Most of his family - even Mother, as much as she understands almost everything - would have tried to suggest things to write about. Una would never do such a thing, but still he can feel her support, quiet and steadfast.

"I suppose in cases like this, it's best to stop thinking about it for a while," he says. "So you came along at the right time." He's still going along with his made-up story, but in truth, he does feel a little better, not thinking about Faith so much. The best poetry may come from tragic situations, but it can be exhausting.

Una doesn't say anything, only blushes - as she does in response to even the slightest compliment - and looks down, playing with a stray thread on her sleeve. A loose strand of hair slips forward and - perhaps it is the late afternoon light, or the way the hair frames her face, but for a moment Una Meredith looks beautiful.

Not that she isn't - in her own way. Walter would never dream of calling his childhood friend ugly. But she's not Faith. No one would ever write a sonnet dedicated to Una Meredith. Would they?

Walter looks at her sideways. What _would_ a poem about Una say? She does not have the requisite hair of gold, though she _does_ have eyes of blue. There is nothing amiss about her face, though there is nothing striking about it either. (Walter will not permit himself to think about her figure.) She is small and pale and altogether rather unremarkable, lacking the liveliness or intelligence of her siblings and friends. No, he supposes he could never write an ode to her beauty.

But he could write about other things, couldn't he? About the way she always seems to know the right thing to say, and the way she bites her lip when she's nervous. The way she never complains, never thinks of herself first. The way her hand used to fit into his when they were younger and holding hands was an innocent thing.

The way she's staring at him now.

"Walter?" she asks. "Are you all right?"

He blinks out of his reverie. "I was wondering what I would say, if I were to write a poem about you," he tells her.

For Walter, it is a simple statement, said without a second thought, devoid of any romantic feeling. (For Una, it is a horrible, quiet shock - she feels it throughout her system but doesn't move, scared to give herself away.) For a moment, Walter thinks he can see _something_ in her face - Una's inability to put her thoughts into words is compensated by the expressiveness of her features, if she chooses to show her feelings. But whatever it was, she hides it well, and soon she is impassive.

"You don't need to do that," she says quietly, breaking eye contact and looking down. ( _It would hurt too much, if he tried to write about her and had nothing to say._ )

"But I will," he says. "One day."

She looks at him shyly, a small smile on her face, hands tugging at her sleeves. "Will I get to read it?" she asks. If it were anyone else, Walter thinks, the question would sound coy. But it is Una, and she is always sincere.

"Of course."

They sit, then, in comfortable silence, the wind blowing around them. Next to him, Una's hair is coming loose from her braid, long strands streaming away from her face. She has pulled her sleeves down to cover her hands, pale fingers curled around dark fabric. The maple leaves settle around her, catching at her clothes and hair. The beauty of the image does not overcome Walter in the way of Faith or Alice Parker - rather, it creeps under his skin, curls around him so familiarly that he doesn't even notice its presence.

Later that night, Walter sits at his desk and tries to turn his thoughts back to Faith, _to Rosamond_ , but instead finds himself thinking up lines about orange leaves against dark hair, and a soft smile.

(He's not sure why he cannot stop thinking of that image, so he goes to sleep and lets the inspiration slip away in his dreams. When he wakes up, he finishes the second sonnet in sequence and daydreams of the girl with blonde hair and brown eyes, and everything is as normal, if only he could shake the nagging feeling that he is forgetting someone.)


	5. Left Unsaid

Shirley first kisses a girl at the age of thirteen. Or, more accurately, she kisses him. They're loitering in the classroom - he had spilled the contents of his pencil box and was consequently gathering the varied school supplies and bits of paper ( _why_ had he never cleaned it out) and she is - he's not sure why she's still here, but it's not any of his business, so he doesn't ask.

"Shirley," she says.

He looks up and she's standing over him. She kneels to help him clean up. They stand at the same time and Shirley opens his mouth to croak out "Thank you" in a voice rusty from disuse when she leans in and pecks him on the mouth.

(Months later, he realizes that she had stayed behind and helped him clean just to kiss him and he consequently decides that he will never understand girls.)

He goes home feeling rather confused - what on earth is he going to say to her tomorrow? - and also as though he's passed over some threshold. He has been kissed. This is important, isn't it? He should tell Jem or Walter about this momentous occasion in his life, but somehow the idea lacks any sort of appeal. Then he thinks that he could ask Nan or Di what on earth the meaning of this is, but that too falls flat. Shirley doesn't doubt the wisdom or experience of his older siblings, nor does he doubt their earnestness - if they do tease, it will be good-natured and he can take it. But still, he cannot bring himself to broach the topic.

So he doesn't tell anyone, lets the milestone pass unobserved. It never occurs to him that he is keeping a secret. This is only one of many things he never tells anyone. Not for desire to be duplicitous, but simply because he has never had that sort of relationship with his family and it feels strange to start now.

~

The Russian Knight is the first four-engine plane to take flight and Shirley is fascinated. It can carry more weight than any other plane and passengers can even stand up during flight. He finds himself daydreaming - something he rarely does - throughout breakfast, lost in thoughts of flight.

The only one who notices is Rilla, because she has to knock his elbow to get him to pass her the butter.

Later, after Jem flicks the paper into the rubbish, Shirley retrieves it and clips the article out. Soon it's joined by photos of the Sopwith Tabloid and the Wright brothers' schematics. If anybody notices his new hobby, they don't mention it and he doesn't feel the need to bring it up. He sends off for books about aviation and tucks flight school brochures into the space between his bed and the wall.

(He'll finish Queen's and go to Redmond, of course. Likely he'll never see the inside of a plane. But it's a _possibility._ )

One alarming day, Jem stops in the doorway - from where Shirley's desk and plane-covered walls can be seen - and says, "You're interested in planes now, Shirl?"

For a moment Shirley considers telling Jem everything, his dreams and his plans, having one of those confidential conversations his siblings always seem to be having with each other. But somehow that feels like starting in the middle of a story, one where the beginning is so far back that catching up would take far longer than it's worth. (Ever practical, Shirley is.)

"A bit," he says.

"Hm," Jem says. He nods at one of the pictures. "Bit small, isn't it?"

Then he goes off whistling down the hall, and is gone before Shirley can begin to spill his soul, or even tell him that the plane can carry up to seven people.


	6. Now We Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "One Hand, One Heart" from West Side Story. ~Inspired~ by wacky drunken New Year's Eve shenanigans prompts. Toned down for, you know, lack of drunken debauchery in the Anneverse.

Nan Blythe, as it turns out, is a lightweight.

Jerry's only recently learned that word - you _do_ learn such interesting things in college - and it's true that he's maybe a bit too eager to try it out. On the other hand, he's not entirely wrong. Nan and Di have been allowed their first sips of champagne this New Year's, and Nan seems to have fallen in love with the stuff. She's not _drunk_ , exactly - God and Dr. Blythe forbid - but she is rather…exuberant. _Tipsy_. Another excellent college word.

"Aren't you worried about Nan?" he murmurs to Di, who is curled up and still carefully sipping away. She hasn't even made it through half of her first glass.

"Hm? Of course not," she says. "She's not drunk. And anyway, the whole family is here to keep an eye on her. And you, of course." She winks at him. Jerry has the uncomfortable feeling that Di is seeing right through him.

"There you are," Walter says to Di, sitting down next to her. "I hope I'm not interrupting your solitude."

"Oh, you aren't," Di says. "Jerry already took care of that."

Walter laughs and Jerry decides to leave the siblings alone. The two are always sharing confidences and he's sure they don't want him around just now.

He scans the room, looking for a new conversation partner. Jem and Faith are deep in conversation, with Faith blushing and Jem smiling. Well. Jerry certainly doesn't want to interrupt _that_ \- or, rather, he does, but knows it would do no good.

Una and Carl are sitting with Shirley and Rilla - a little foursome of the younger siblings. Rilla is talking and Carl is laughing at whatever it is she's saying, while Shirley and Una are merely listening with amused smiles. Jerry feels a burst of fondness for his little sister and brother - and the two Blythes who are like a little sister and brother to him.

And then there is Nan. She is cheerfully chattering away to her mother, who looks as though she is desperately trying to hold back laughter. Jerry decides that he should save Anne Blythe from her slightly intoxicated daughter. It is only the polite thing to do.

"Jerry!" Nan says when she notices him. "Hello! I'm so glad you're here!"

Nan does not usually abuse exclamation points so. Jerry exchanges a glance with her mother. "I'll take her off your hands, Mrs. Blythe," he says, a bit teasingly.

Anne only laughs and goes off to find Gilbert and Jerry is once again left with the uncomfortable feeling that one of the Blythes knows _exactly_ what he's thinking. Curse them.

"Hasn't it been a wonderful year?" Nan asks. There's a flush on her cheeks that Jerry doesn't recall being there usually - and he recalls quite a bit about Nan Blythe.

"I suppose so," he says, quite casually - too casually, perhaps, trying not to give himself away.

"It _has_ ," she insists. "It's been beautiful and lovable and - nearly perfect. It rained a bit too much in spring, I suppose, but that can't be helped - but I _did_ miss how green and lovely everything usually is. Oh! Jem went to get Mother the first mayflowers, and he was _drenched_ when he came back. He gave some to Faith, too. Isn't that _romantic_?"

Jerry laughs (and privately resolves to sternly talk to Jem later). "Aren't you a bit old for all those italics, Nan?"

"It's a holiday," she says. "You're allowed to use italics on a holiday."

"Oh, _well_ , in _that_ case…"

She laughs, more loudly than normal, but he likes it. It's joyful and free, not a giggle or a chuckle. It's infectious and Jerry has to smile, too.

All the outside observers - Miss Cornelia's endlessly sharp eyes included - will note that Jerry's smile is far too fond to be merely friendly, which is perhaps why Jem - having the belief that he can control his sister that Jerry lacks - comes up and claps him on the shoulder.

"Time to drink to the new year," he says, then shoots a pointed look at Nan. "Not you."

Nan pouts but acquiesces. Jem turns away as they all watch the clock and wait for the minute hand to tick to midnight. When it does, they laugh and cheer and Dr. Blythe kisses his wife right on the mouth (" _Why_ must our parents do things like this in front of the _company_?" bemoans Rilla).

Nan is still next to him and Jem's back is still turned. "Happy new year, Jerry!" she chirps, and leans up to kiss him on the cheek. Just like always, just like a million times before. Only this time she misses - just a bit - and her mouth collides with the corner of his.

It's not kissing - really - which will be Jerry's defense if and/or when Jem learns of this. He thinks maybe it's an accident, but she lingers for a moment too long to be unintentional. Nan's mouth is soft and her skin of her cheek is warm where it touches his. When she pulls away, her eyes are a bit too bright and she is watching him, almost as if for a reaction.

He tries to say something - where is Walter and his poetry when one needs them? - but all that comes out is "Happy new year, Nan."

1914, he thinks, has promise.


	7. In the Rain, In a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Ajisai AI Ai Monogatari" by v-u-den.

In the dream, dawn breaks over Rainbow Valley, and the grass is wet under their bare feet, though neither of them have been barefoot in years. Walter clasps Faith's hands and in this dream world, she clasps his back, reciprocating. They gaze into each other's eyes and Faith whispers that she has always, always loved him. (Jem is - it doesn't matter where Jem is. That's the beauty of dreams, you see.)

Faith's hair catches the rising sun and it is like a halo around her beauty, an angel of the old stories (and she is here for _him_ ), and she leans close and whispers things that would make them both blush, were it real - but it is not, and in the dream, Walter finds the courage to murmur his own desires in return.

And then it is not Faith, it is Una, hair dark instead of golden and eyes sorrowful and full of longing, and Walter registers the change but does not question it. Dreams do not need logic - he wants her just the same. Her hands are delicate and tremble in his grasp, and Walter thinks he should keep her from shaking, chase the sadness from her eyes.

Una's lips are red in the cold - for it is cold, suddenly - and she has quite a pretty mouth, how has he never noticed it in waking - and when he kisses her, she lets him in, mouth all soft and a bit wet, the way he's always thought kisses would be. And he has never quite thought about what it would be like to touch Una, not in his conscious hours, but here it seems quite natural that he should hold her around the waist, press his hand to the small of her back and feel the curve of her body and the ridge of her spine; Una never eats as much as she should.

There are other details, small ones that are lost in the haze of sleep - strange how some things matter in dream-land, and some don't at all. It doesn't matter how they end up on the ground - somehow the grass is dry now - or how his mouth discovers the place where her pulse beats, staccato, or the jut of her collarbone, so defined that he can trace it to her shoulder. It doesn't matter that he has no way of knowing these things, because here he does, somehow. It doesn't matter that he has never kissed a girl or that this is beyond impropriety. All that matters is the meeting of lips and skin, and that Una's hair is like silk fanned out on the grass.

Walter wakes up somehow soaked and burning at the same time. He covers his face with an arm, trying to slow the beating of his heart. _Just a dream, just a dream._ He repeats it like a prayer, biting down on the shame of his arousal. He doesn't think of Una in that way, _cannot_ think of her that way, and if he can still feel her, warm and soft around him, that is only the last remnants of the dream fading.

And fade it does, quickly, the way dreams always do, the details lost to that place between sleeping and waking. But the next day, when Una shivers in the cold, her hands shaking, Walter is suddenly sure that he could warm her, although for the life of himself he cannot remember how.


	8. not quite left behind

"It's not _fair._ "

Shirley closed his book, and Carl Meredith looked up from where he was trying to coax a ladybug onto a leaf. They had been spending time in companionable silence, engrossed in their various projects, but they knew that tone of voice - and the voice itself - all too well.

"Problem, Spider?" Shirley asked.

Rilla glared at him. "I am _not_ a spider."

"True," Carl said, without looking at her. Seeing that Rilla was suffering from nothing more than a fit of pique, he had gone back to corralling the ladybug.

"Really?" Rilla asked, feeling her mood lift slightly. She could always count on Carl to be kind to her.

"Mmm," he said. "Spiders have eight legs. Rilla only has two - well, four limbs, if you count the arms. Maybe an orangutan?"

"Lacks simplicity," Shirley said. "It's not easy to say, 'Hello, Orangutan.'"

Rilla's smile, which had been shrinking, completely disappeared.

"Are you going to listen to me or mock me?" she demanded.

"We can't do both?" asked Carl, smiling to himself.

"Fine," pouted Rilla, scrambling to her feet. "I'll go talk to Una, then. _She_ listens to me."

Carl, who knew that Una listened to everybody, even Mary Vance, rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

Shirley laughed, grabbing his little sister by the hand. "All right, Spider, we're sorry. _Do_ forgive us."

Rilla did not actually want to forgive - at least not so quickly - _and_ Shirley had called her Spider again. Still, her desire for an audience outweighed her loathing of the nickname, so she sat down again.

"I do not _want_ to go to Queen's," she said, staring moodily at the grass. Shirley thought that, with her brooding stare, she was doing a very good impression of Walter.

"So don't go," Carl offered.

"Mother and Father _want_ me to go. They keep telling me that Nan and Di went. And that Shirley is going. Well, I'm _not_ Nan nor Di. Nor Shirley," she added, after a pause.

"Fortunately," Shirley deadpanned. Then he added, "Don't worry. I heard Dad say you're not strong enough." He grinned, deciding to harrow her soul - just a little. "Something about being too spider-like?"

Rilla pouted. "Even if I don't go, Mother would just make me study at home. Or learn to cook - or sew. She thinks I am completely useless. Just because I don't want to do everything _Nan_ and _Di_ do - "

"Would this," mused Carl, "have anything to do with Nan and Di going to that party last night?"

" _No_ ," scowled Rilla. Then she frowned. "How do _you_ know what Nan and Di do?"

"Faith and Jerry were there," he said. "They all went in a group."

" _Oh_ ," Rilla said, with somewhat unnecessary italics. Carl and Shirley exchanged glances over the top of her head. The very mention of the older set's social activities was enough to set the younger girl's teeth on edge, and Carl being privy to such information was salt in the wound. They supposed it wasn't very _nice_ to aggravate Rilla so - but oh, it was funny. And Spider _could_ use some humbling, every now and then.

"You probably didn't want to go, anyway," Carl said. "Ken Ford went along with them, and you two fight every time you're in the same room together."

Shirley peered at his sister out of the corner of his eye, and was disconcerted to find her blushing. _Aha_.

"We do not," Rilla mumbled. "We don't even talk."

"Well, that's a relief," Carl said frankly. "Remember, Shirl, the fights they'd get into?"

"Mm-hm," Shirley said, watching Rilla now. Something about the mention of Ken Ford had deflated her. _Rilla and Ken…?_ No, that was silliness. He was far too old for her, and a notorious flirt besides. Not that Rilla wasn't getting to be a flirt herself. Shirley didn't usually concern himself with the affairs of his sisters - nor with his siblings in general - and he certainly didn't bother with feeling protective - Jem and Walter were fine enough for that. Still, it was…curious.

"It doesn't matter," Rilla rushed on. "That's not the _point_. The point is - " And then a pause as she tried to remember what, indeed, the point had been.

"Whatever it is," Carl said - not unkindly, "I'm sure it'll all be fine, Spi - Rilla." He pulled himself to a sitting position and then up, brushing grass off of his knees. "I've got to go back, though. It's my turn to watch Bruce tonight."

The Blythe siblings waved him away - Shirley with silence and a smile, and Rilla demanding that he go on a moon-spree with her before he went back to Queen's. Then just Shirley and Rilla remained, silent as dusk settled over the Glen.

Shirley was expecting Rilla to leave after Carl, but she stayed, chin propped on her hands. The look on her face could only be called pensive, although that was a word Shirley never associated with his sweet, thoughtless little sister. Still, he thought perhaps she wanted him to say something.

"Is - uh - everything all right there, Spider?"

He wished he could take the words back as soon as he said them - wished he had taken more time to arrange them better, though he knew it wouldn't have made a difference - Shirley always thought before he spoke, but the words still never seemed to come out right. _Walter would've known what to say_.

Rilla sighed, and too late Shirley realized that he had called her _Spider_ again.

"Carl is getting too smart," she muttered, uprooting some grass with the toe of her boot.

Shirley wanted to laugh. Carl knew everything possible to know about the living creatures that crawled over the earth, but he was hopeless at literature and couldn't do math to save his life. Surely that couldn't be what Rilla was upset about. He remained silent until Rilla spoke again.

"He'd probably rather spend time with you - or Nan and Di - or Jem," she continued, seemingly only talking partly to him. "He probably doesn't think I'm _smart_ enough. Nobody does," she added, more quietly.

Shirley suddenly recalled a memory of a warm summer day when the Fords had come to visit, back when Ken and Rilla used to antagonize each other constantly - before they had slipped into silences, distant on Ken's part and sullen and awkward on Rilla's. Ken had been teasing Rilla about not making as good marks in school as her siblings, and she had thrown a pillow at his head and stormed out. Everyone had assumed it was merely part of the girl's dramatics. But perhaps not.

And perhaps today's pouts were more than mere fit of pique.

"You're smart," he said. "You're just…younger than us."

As the words left his mouth, he knew they were wrong. There was no _us_ to be spoken of, for Shirley had never really been included in the shared childhood of the Blythes and Merediths. And then he had a flash of realization that this was not, perhaps, entirely about Queen's or their siblings, or Carl Meredith, or even Ken Ford. Perhaps it was about Rilla feeling left out. And Shirley knew that feeling well.

"Oh, I _know_ that. I can still do simple math, you know." She ripped a bit viciously at the sweetgrass under their feet. "I won't take any prizes in arithmetic, but…"

"You don't have to, Rilla," he said gently, taking care not to use the loathed nickname. "You don't have to be just like Nan and Di."

She rolled over, picking at a blade of grass, carelessly flicking an ant off of it. If Carl had still been there, he would have been appalled at her crass treatment of one of his beloved insects.

"Everyone wants me to be," she mumbled.

Shirley shrugged. "Everyone wanted me to be like Jem and Walter." _Or maybe I wanted to be like Jem and Walter._

"You're not, though," she said.

Shirley raised an eyebrow at her.

"Oh! That's _different_ ," she snapped.

He didn't say anything.

Rilla pulled her knees up to her chin. "Everyone's leaving, that's all," she said, her voice small and defeated.

"You could go to Queen's, too," Shirley pointed out.

"I don't _want_ to," she snapped, exasperated.

"But you don't want Carl to, either."

"No," Rilla said. Then she sighed. "Yes. No. Oh, don't ask such difficult questions." She tore the grass into a few more pieces, smaller and smaller until they were little more than shreds. "Everyone will have gone to Queen's - and you'll all have such jolly stories - and then you'll all go to Redmond - and have your dances and your parties together - and I'll just be here - and it's not _fair_."

"There's always Una Meredith. She hasn't gone to Queen's, either."

"Oh, she doesn't count."

Shirley wanted to roll his eyes at Rilla's dismissal of one of the family's oldest friends, but the phrase _Choose your battles_ came to mind.

"It won't make a difference, you know," he said. "I'm going to Queen's now, and - I'm still not - part of everything." _That didn't come out right either_. Shirley wished he lived in a land where all communication could be done through mime routines. These _word_ things were not working out for him.

Rilla suddenly looked at him with sympathy. "Oh, Shirley."

"It doesn't matter," he said, wanting to avoid pity. "I only meant - continuing with school, going to college - it won't change anything. Jem and Walter and Nan and Di and Carl - they write all the time. They think about you all the time. You're not left behind, Rilla. Really."

"Oh." There was silence, and then she wriggled closer, leaning against him, and Shirley looped his arm around her shoulders.

"You aren't either, you know," she said, her voice so quiet Shirley barely heard it. A strange lump formed in his throat - and oh, he was not going let his baby sister make him cry.

"I know," he started, choosing his words slowly and carefully, "that we're not - close. But - you are my sister, and - if you need to - talk - "

"I know," Rilla said. "Some things don't need to be said. Besides, I think this is the most you've talked since you've come home." Then she elbowed him in the side.

"Ow," Shirley said. "We were having a moment, you know."


	9. untouchable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iiii wrote fic set to a girls aloud song. judge me not!

_and in my dreams, it feels like we aren't ever going to fall  
we're safe and sound, we're untouchable_

Jerry is seven years old when he discovers that prayers are not a bargaining tool.

He prays for a lot of things - that Carl will stop bringing frogs and snakes into the bed they have to share, that Faith will stop tormenting him for fun, that Father will remember to feed them on nights when Mother goes to the Ladies' Aid. When there are no signs of God's response, Father takes him aside and tells him that prayer doesn't work that way; Jerry trusts his father and accepts that no amount of bargains or promises to God will change what must be. Sometimes he prays that his classmates will stop mocking them for being the poor ministers' children - more for Una, whose eyes fill with tears when they pull at her worn dress and crooked braids, and for Carl, who looks hurt for a split second when the other boys tell him that he cannot play with them - than for himself.

And sure enough, Mother sews Una a new dress for Christmas and Carl makes friends with a new boy in class the next year, and Jerry thinks that as long as he is not selfish, God will smile upon him.

* * *

Jerry is nine years old when he discovers that prayers are just words; they disappear into the air as they leave his mouth.

Cecilia Meredith falls sick and Jerry prays for her to get better, says the words he learned on his first day of Sunday school.

The weeks slip by and still she does not recover, but Jerry waits, patient as he's been taught to be. At night, he hears Faith pacing up and down her room when she cannot sleep for worry, and Una, already too silent, becomes quieter still.

The weeks turn to months and then Jerry begins to worry. He promised his father long ago that he wouldn't bargain with God, but desperation makes him foolish and reckless in his oaths. One night, he passes by his father's study and hears him making the same promises he'd told Jerry not to, so Jerry thinks perhaps this time, this once, it is all right.

It makes no difference, in the end.

* * *

Nan Blythe thinks she knows what it is to be hurt - when the girls in school choose each other instead of her, when Rilla gets the attention that Nan feels is rightfully her own. Little digs and cuts that heal quickly, balmed by Mother's words and Susan's praise. For the real hurt of the world can't touch them, not here in the Glen, where tragedy is only old legends and tales in Walter's storybooks.

She tells Jerry as much one day, when Carl's recovered from his pneumonia. Jerry tells her how scared he'd been, how guilty he'd felt, and Nan feels warm at the thought that Jerry - black-browed, too-serious Jerry - is trusting her with this.

"But you must've known, deep down, that he would be all right," Nan says, a bit thoughtlessly.

Jerry looks at her sideways. "How could I? He was so sick."

Nan shrugs, shreds some grass between her fingers. "Because…because. God wouldn't let Carl die." There. That's the answer, or at least she thinks it is - it seems somehow unsatisfactory under Jerry's scrutiny.

He doesn't say anything. She doesn't quite notice.

* * *

"…so I promised God that I'd walk through the graveyard at midnight if He would help Mother," Nan says. She looks at Jerry sideways, through loose strands of hair. "I suppose _the minister's son_ thinks it frightfully silly of me."

Perhaps she's flirting, just a little. Nan doesn't like the idea of being a coquette, but - it's frustrating, that she can't seem to make Jerry look at her the way the rest of the Glen boys do. Nan is used to getting her way.

Jerry is not even laughing at her story. Instead, he's frowning, as though he's deep in thought. Nan frowns, too. It was a funny story; he should laugh. She nudges him. "Jerry?"

"Hm? I was just thinking," he says. "It's not silly. We all - " he shrugs. "When you're young, I suppose such things seem possible."

Nan sniffs. Jerry, calling her _young_. He's only a year older than her, for heaven's sake. "I suppose sensible _Jerry_ has never done such a thing," she says.

He does laugh now, but it's oddly bitter, and for the first time, Nan feels the distance between herself and her friend.

* * *

"You _can't_ think Germany is serious," Nan says. "They've no - how would you say it? No _advantage_."

"The most industrialized nation in Europe has no advantage?" Jerry asks. "For heaven's sake, Nan."

"Who are their allies? Perhaps Germany has the most power, but their allies are weaker - together, Britain and hers are stronger. Besides, their borders are too inconvenient," Nan insists. "I'm sure Germany is as lovely as Canada in the spring, but their location certainly isn't made for strategy."

"Whatever problems they may encounter there - " Jerry starts, but Nan turns away.

"For heaven's sake, _Jerry_ ," she parrots him. "Why are we arguing over this? There probably won't even be a war in Europe. Things are too lovely now to mess up for - for what?"

"Power," Jerry tries again, but Nan isn't listening anymore. She pulls a rose from the bush and tosses it at him.

"Has anyone told you that when you get too serious, your brows turn into one long caterpillar?" she asks. She turns her attention back to the rose bush, tugging another bloom down to her face. It is sweet as roses always are, and Nan wonders why Jerry treats their arguments as though they're life-or-death to him. Academic wrangles are fine in their place, but Nan certainly doesn't wish to think about them on such a lovely day. They're all just theories, anyhow.

"How is it," Jerry asks, "that you can argue so passionately for something, and then forget it the second something else grabs your interest?"

Nan laughs. "How is it that _you_ take it so seriously? The trouble in Europe is dreadful - and sometimes I feel wicked dissecting it as though these countries are chess pieces - but it _doesn't_ have anything to do with us. Now, if I had to see a German as often as I see Reta Crawford, perhaps I'd have a more - vested interest in their affairs."

"You don't think the diplomacy crises of the British Empire - that we belong to - have anything to do with us?"

Nan shrugs. "They never have before."

"That's it, though," Jerry says, his voice strangely soft. "You think these things can't affect you - but they do. Maybe this time is different. Don't you worry about it, even sometimes?"

"No - not really," she says. "It seems - as Newton said, what is in motion stays in motion. It doesn't seem possible that our lives - 'in motion' - can be interrupted."

Jerry laughs. "Are you trying to apply the laws of physics to fate, Nan Blythe?" he asks. "This is why I don't like to argue with anyone but you." His face becomes serious again. "But I'm afraid I must disagree. It happens all the time."

Nan sighs. "Not _here_ , Jerry. The worst thing that's ever happened in the Glen is the time when Elder Clow collapsed outside the church and everyone thought he was just being dramatic. They've fought a million wars and we've never heard a word of it."

"I believe that's what they call 'tempting fate', Miss Blythe."

"I don't understand why you're such a pessimist," Nan murmurs. Sometimes she thinks she can feel it, the strange chasm that sometimes yawns between the Blythe and Meredith children - but whatever it is, she can never quite grasp it.

"I suppose you don't" is all Jerry says. He sighs and stretches. "I'd better get back home. Faith's - trying - to cook tonight."

Nan laughs, but it turns into a frown as she watches him amble away. She wonders if she's won the argument or not, or if they were discussing the same thing at all.


	10. draw you nearer

The clock has ticked into the morning, and Walter is still awake.

Ingleside is asleep; Jem's breathing deep and steady in his unconsciousness. He and Walter have always shared this small east room, beds close enough that, in their adolescent gangliness, they can reach across to each other with ease. " _What_ ever happened to my babies?" Mother is wont to sigh when she thinks they cannot hear.

Walter is fourteen years old, studying for the Queen's examinations, too old now to be afraid of shadows and the dark. He tries not to be, as best he can - Jem has grown up, doesn't seem to fear anything, and Walter knows that Jem knows best; he tries so hard to follow.

But he still thinks of these things more often than Jem and Dad would like.

He shouldn't have any kind of fright - certainly not of being helpless and alone. Ingleside is always a house of many inhabitants, and tonight the Meredith girls are asleep in Nan and Di's room as well, so the idea that he is the only one awake, thoughts creeping, is laughable. _Should_ be laughable.

But…well, it is not.

He thinks maybe he should have some tea - tea and one of Susan's buns left covered in the pantry. Mother sighs over that, too, how he and Jem are eating everything in the house. (Di complains about that as well, then Nan says she'll get fat, and then there's another fight that Walter is in the middle of - but that's not the point.)

He swings his legs out of bed quietly, careful not to hit the floor too hard. He is growing fast - too fast - the length of his limbs surprises him, at times; surprises him that he should be as tall as Mother now and taller soon. His shadow is long and thin against the wall, bending across the floor and the ceiling. It stretches out in front of him as he goes down the stairs, as though he's merely following where it wills.

The moon is bright, casting light over the familiar shapes of the sofa, the tables and the cabinet where Gog and Magog sit. Diana the huntress gleams in the window, and everything is so familiar that for a moment he forgets his fear.

Then he hears a noise in the kitchen.

Walter's heart thuds to a stop, his imagination leaping to action and sprinting ahead of his common sense. It might be an intruder - a thief - a murderer - worse, a monster. (What any of these creatures would be doing in the _kitchen_ , his imagination doesn't bother to figure.)

He creeps a bit closer, wishing Jem were with him, or even Di. He would very much like their frankness right now, for he has never had enough for his own good.

There's something in the kitchen, something pale white and wispy. His heart leaps into his throat.

Then the creature turns around at the sound of his steps, and he sees that it is not something to fear at all. Although, in his defense, Una Meredith looks a bit like a ghost in her ragged nightgown. She is frail-limbed and white all over, save for the dark of her hair and brows. She clasps a cup between her hands.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she says. "I was just…" She motions a little vaguely towards the stove, where Walter can see the silhouette of their dented kettle.

"You didn't," he assures her, trying to make her believe as much as himself. He certainly doesn't want to admit that the sight of her nearly made him jump out of his skin. "Is there any more water?"

Una follows his question to its logical conclusion and pours a cup for him. They steep their leaves together in silence. Walter darts a glance at her - he can just see her face, half in shadow. She is staring down at her tea like it is the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Couldn't you sleep?" he asks finally, when the silence begins to feel awkward.

Una's face colors. In the moonlight it turns her cheeks a sort of mottled blue. "Nan and Faith were telling ghost stories," she says. "And then Di thought it would be funny grab us - so - when we were trying to sleep." She pinches her waist to demonstrate.

Walter cannot help but smile - kindly. "Here," he says fondly, "I'll tell you a story. A nicer one."

Una smiles, too - one of her soft, rare smiles. Something in Walter is unexpectedly pleased to see that he can draw it from her. They huddle at the table, two buns between them, Una leaning in a little to hear him. Between sips of tea, he whispers a tale of kinder ghosts, doing a little bit of good on earth while they wait for the soul who belongs with them, so they can finally pass on.

It's not the most original story - he is borrowing rather liberally from one of Mother's poems, and from a lurid book of Nan's (which she is most certainly not supposed to be reading) - but Una seems transfixed nevertheless, and when he concludes with the ghost leaving the earth at last, she gives a happy little sigh.

"That was very nice," she says softly. Walter bristles a little at the simplicity of the praise, but then he meets her eyes and she is looking at him so sincerely, gaze fixed on his, that it suddenly means more than most compliments he's received. He wants to tell her so, but for once, he can't find the words.

It should be easier to talk to her, he thinks. He looks down to where their hands are both so pale on the table together. Should be easy, the way talking to Nan and Di and Faith is easy. She should be like a sister to him, Una, but somehow she is not. If he is being honest, Walter must admit that he does not always know what to make of her. There is something in her that is distant - Walter wonders now, in the dark, if one day they might be closer. It feels almost like it, in this moment - in the quiet, in the night, like they are the only two people left in the world. All of his anxious waking thoughts are gone, muted into something steady and even.

"I'll go," she says, standing. They walk to the stairs together, and Walter lets her go up first. It feels a little wrong, somehow - like he should do something to bid her goodbye. He lifts his hand, then lets it drop to his side. He doesn't know what he was planning to do.

"Thank you for the story," Una murmurs. She hesitates at the bottom step, and for a moment she physically sways as though she might turn back. Then she smiles shyly at him, the second time tonight. "Good-night."

"Good-night," he repeats, watching her turn the bend in the staircase, hears her footsteps tread lightly to Nan and Di's room.

In the morning, Di notices two buns are missing right away, and Nan says she'll be as roly-poly as Rilla if she was planning to eat them both. The Meredith girls have to leave early in the wake of another explosive fight between the twins, Faith laughing at their drama easily, Una solemn as always. But when she passes him, her mouth curls in that rare, almost secret way.

Nobody else notices, but Walter smiles back.


End file.
